Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I’ve thought about how to word this for so long, debated myself on whether it should be shared publicly or not, and questioned what would happen when various people saw this and reacted. I dread sympathy, the look in your eyes changing when you see me after this. But what I know is the relief and empathy and bravery I have found in seeing friends share their stories. I love people who have clearly been touched by grief and let it change them, let it make them softer or quicker to tears or more open with others. So here’s my story.
I realized I was pregnant on Mothers Day. I had been sleepy and nauseated for a couple of weeks and thought, “no way”, but took a test the next day anyway. It was positive; so was the next one. I couldn’t keep it from Casey for five minutes 😂 And somehow, immediately, we were both elated. I had always assumed a healthy mixture of fear and anxiety and excitement would hit me when I found out I was pregnant, but there was only excitement. The next day I scheduled the earliest possible ultrasound, which was a couple days after our upcoming London trip. We spent a week just being giddy.
Then it unraveled. The night before our flight to London, I knew something bad was happening and we went to the ER around 8 pm. We spent hours in the waiting room. They did an ultrasound and wouldn’t let Casey come, and I just remember laying in the dark, squeezing my eyes shut because I was afraid to see the screen. It was one of the loneliest moments of my life.
Finally around 4 am, they took us back to a room and said "it looks like we're seeing this on the way out”. We told them we were supposed to fly to London the next day, and the doctor encouraged us to just go on the trip and hope for the best. He said to keep my original ultrasound date and that we’d reevaluate things once we returned from the trip. So we went.
And it was a glorious and horrific week all at once. We had some of the best weather, the most beautiful sights and experiences, and made some incredible memories together. But the first night, I couldn’t sleep and woke up weeping in the middle of the night processing it all. The first day, I was so nauseated and in such pain that we had to scrap a couple things from the itinerary and let me just lay down at the hotel for a few hours. You couldn’t tell from the pictures, could you?
The day of this picture, in Greenwich, I was in agony (mostly physical). I texted a friend who had experienced a miscarriage before and asked if it was ok for me to bleed this much. I’ve never seen so much blood leaving a human that wasn’t dying (although I guess a human was dying). The week was a constant mixture of trying to listen to my body and take care of myself, and trying to go beyond what felt comfortable because I was going to be miserable no matter what. The day we flew back is what I now realize was the day I lost the baby. I wouldn’t wish my experiences from that day on anyone. I tear up when I think of the angelic seat buddy we had on the long flight across the pond, who talked video games with us and admired my Eras Tour shirt and gave Casey a heads up that ice cream was coming and save me some while I slept. Who didn’t mind when I got up every hour and stepped over her to go to the bathroom yet again. And my sweet angel husband, who saved the ice cream for me, held my hand and wiped my tears and searched the airports for Sprite and Advil. 
Things went about the way you’d think when we got back. We went to the ultrasound appointment. It was awful. I cried most of the way home, and on and off for the next several days. All I could bring myself to do was sleep and watch Friends. I lost myself for a while. I’m really glad that it happened over the summer because I don’t know how I would have survived in the school year. Gradually, I came back to mostly normal, though of course forever changed.
When I think of all the support we’ve had through this, I get weepy again. Of course Casey has been phenomenal support for me, and he has amazing friends who have also kept checking in with him. My gyno was amazing. Our family and missional family have been the best. It’s amazing that several of the women in our missional family have experienced pregnancy and infant loss… we all form this wonderful, terrible little grief club. It’s amazing to have those people to be honest with, to ask questions of, and to know they understand- that we can just listen to each other and say, “yeah, wasn’t that part the worst?” In some weird way, there is such comfort in that.
I keep thinking of 2 Corinthians 1:3-5, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For just as the sufferings of Christ are ours in abundance, so also our comfort is abundant through Christ.”
He has comforted me, in all this affliction, through the comfort of others who have been there. Our comfort is abundant through Christ. ❤️🩹
So, I write all of this to say, if you’re also part of this terrible little grief club, hi, I love you, I want to listen if you want to talk. If you aren’t, please please PLEASE give people space, keep rude comments to yourself, don’t comment on others’ bodies REGARDLESS of if you see it as a “compliment” or not, and for goodness' sake stop asking women when they’re having kids. Be a nice human and in the words of the brilliant Brené Brown, don't try to silver-linings other people's loss. "At least you know you can get pregnant," "at least you're still young and have plenty of time," "at least it was early and you didn't get too attached," etc. Just don't start a response with "at least." None of these are kind or comforting or empathetic.
Thank you for reading my story, and enduring my soapbox. Much love!
